Oh How She Hungers

Light cast through the church, as if God was reaching a hand into the space to remind the few lingering congregation members of the Heavenly embrace that resided upon them. Its glow passed through the stained glass windows, and landed upon the hung head of the statue of Jesus upon the cross.

“In the name of the Father…”

Father Berkaman drew the sign of cross upon his chest in reverence, before crossing the stage to a smaller atrium. The last kneeling occupant finished her prayer, before rising and departing. Father Berkaman inclined his head as she passed.

There was only one other person remaining in the small room. She sat on a far pew, her head lowered and her hands worked at an item she held. Her darkened hair hung in a flat sheet, blocking her face from the light. She was tapping her foot at a rapid pace. The clothes she wore were baggy and she seemed to be trying to hide within her pale sweater.

She was young, most likely only a woman by a year or so. There was a heaviness sat upon her shoulders that spoke of the sins that were clenching her heart. Her head rose, and Father Berkaman got a glimpse of her trembling gaze, before she looked away.

It was outside of Confessional Hours, but looking upon this young woman, he knew an exception was needed. The Church was nearly empty, and he was meant to be leaving with the rest of them, yet he gave her one reassuring glance before stepping into the Confessional booth.

For nearly a minute, there was no sound of movement. He wondered if she had decided against taking the chance of God’s grace. As that thought crossed his mind, the door to the separate confessional opened. He saw movement through the small partition, watching the light catch her form as she sat down. He could hardly see her - as was tradition within Confession - but through the patterned grate, he could make out the shape of her torso and her hair shrouded face. Anxiety rolled off her in waves.

The confessional booth grew warm. He adjusted the collar of his shirt and breathed through the suddenly stiffiling air. It passed after a breath or two.

The woman continued to fidget in her seat.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he marked the sign of the cross upon his chest, watching her clumsily do the same. “May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you know your sins and trust in his mercy."

Her voice was shaky as she recited. “Father, for I have sinned. It has been…. I’ve never actually done this. I am sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for. This space is safe; somewhere for you to be embraced by the love and forgiveness that our God offers. Now, child, tell me your sins and I will listen.”

In the years he had done this, Father Berkaman had come across his fair share of new souls. The elder priest had been given the honor of shepherding a good number of people into the light of the Lord. So when this young woman sat there shaking silently, hardly visible through the partition, he knew he just needed to give her the patience God had gifted him.

“How do you handle this?”

“Handle what?”

“This.” Her light voice was still shaky, but there was a harshness threatening at the edges. “It must be tiring, listening to everyone tell you all the horrible things they’ve done. How do you still believe after all that?”

Berkaman smiled to himself. “When you’ve done this as long as I have, you’ll realize that sins really aren’t all that impressive. It is man’s nature to sin, to stumble despite the light the Lord offers. It is what makes us human. But that is why the mercy of God is such a gift. Because despite how flawed we are, and how much we struggle, God is always there to forgive and welcome us back into his home.”

His hand went to the cross that hung around his neck. He ran his finger over the engraving of Jesus. He had worn the necklace for so many years of his life, but the comfort at its touch never faded.

“I get to see the forgiveness of God first hand. And I get to see the overwhelming power that our Lord has upon a person – a person coming to Confession isn’t a sign of weakness or vileness, it is a sign that a soul has not forsaken Jesus. That they wish to be brought back into his light, and have already overcome the sin of human pride to bring themselves prostrate before the Lord and ask for mercy.”

The woman’s breathing was labored. Through the partition, he could vaguely see her rocking back and forth. She was muttering something under her breath. As he leaned forward to better hear her words, his nose caught a whiff of stifled smoke. It was the smell when he smothered the candles at night, and the lingering smoke hovered in the air.

She was shaking her head. “This was a mistake.”

“Finding forgiveness in God is never a mistake.”

“And if he doesn’t? If he doesn’t forgive me?” Uncertainty was heavy upon her words. It brought him great sadness to see such a young soul struggling as she was, but he knew this was the first step she could take in lifting that burden. “What if I’ve done too much already?”

“I assure you, there is nothing you can do that God will not forgive. Each of us has sinned. Even the Saints have had to call upon God for his infinite mercy and forgiveness.”

Silence continued to sit heavy between them. "I don't know if I even believe... I want to, I really, really want to but... I've seen things Father - things a loving God would never allow to exist. How do you even know there is a God to be forgiven by? How do you know this isn't all just a load of bullshit?"

"That is what makes faith what it is."

"Have you even questioned if God is real?"

Father Berkaman's finger stopped it's movements. He held the necklace tight in his embrace. He'd been faced with this question before - by sinner seeking salvation and by those who wished to take him on their walk of damnation.

His answer was always the same. It was a lie, but it was the answer he'd given each time. "No. I have never questioned."

Silence set upon them as his mind wandered - to alcohol drunk too greedily, of blood flowing with tainted crystals and sins reaped upon his soul by his own path towards damnation. He thought of the speeding car, the stop sign ignored one time too many and child in the backseat of his car who stood no chance against the collision.

She made no move to leave but was struggling to find her wording. When she did speak next, her words caused Father Berkaman to grip his necklace tighter.

"Why do you lie Father?" Her voice came with the renewed presence of heat in the air. “Father I’ve… I’ve killed a man.”

He settled himself into his chair, letting a deep breath pass through his lips. He’s heard countless sins be confessed within these walls, but he’d never come across one this drastic. Still, he knew it was not his place to judge. It was his duty to listen, and to help shepherd a lost soul back into the grace of God.

“Jesus gave his life to save our own, and despite how far we transgress, we can still be saved if we merely take the needed steps. Any sin can be forgiven. Any soul can be saved.”

The woman straightened in her seat, shifting the light passing between the partitions. The aroma of smoke touched his nose once more. The overhead light in his booth flickered, and when it finally settled, the light was duller. The scent of iron lingered in the air.

“Father I’ve…. I’ve killed many men. I lost count of how many souls I’ve taken.”

The bulb began to flickered rapidly. His eyes strained against the flashing fluoresces before the light bulb blew. Glass shattered down upon him, forcing the Father to cower. Darkness covered him as the light was smothered from his booth. After his breathing resettled, he lifted his gaze towards the partition where his only source of light now came from.

Through the slates, he could see the silhouette of the young woman. Her dark shroud of hair still hung over her face. Her torso was shaking from heavy breaths and she was hunched in on herself. A groan reverberated through the booths as the woman rolled her shoulders. She raised her head, and Father Berkaman told himself it was just a trick of the light when something forked flickered from her lips and lashed at the air.

The smell of smoke and iron burned within his nose.

“There’s something in me, father.” Her voice came out hoarse, as if her words were being driven from lungs that struggled to collect the air needed. The light above her began to hum loudly.

“It’s been there for so long. Something in my blood…. It hungers. Don’t you understand Father? It needs to feed. It… it wants to be fed every month, but it can’t. I can’t let it. But it's been there for so many years and I’ve gotten tired. I can’t control it any longer. I’m so tired, Father.”

She turned her face fully onto him. Despite the partition between them, her eyes were startling clear to see as they trembling with hard to miss dread.

She leaned forward, and her hot breath caressed the Father’s face. She raised a hand, pressing her flattened against the partition. The scent of long over-burnt candles began to assault his nose. “Things happen when it feeds. Bad things. Things I never wanted to do. Can you help me Father? Can you save my soul? I’m tired.”

Father Berkaman found his words being lost within his throat. He looked at the young woman before him, finding his gaze struggling to look upon her fully. The light cast upon her was bright, and her skin glowed under the harsh florescence. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth parted, and her tongue licked across the cracked lips with a greedy desire. She curled her fingers, gripping the slates of the partition.

Smoke began to billow from her fingers. A single flare flickered between her grasp.

As the unholy flame lit, her face shifted for a mere moment. The innocent fear in her eyes disappeared into hallowed blackness. Her forked tongue licked at the partition between them. It left a trail of dark ooze behind.

Father Berkaman raised his cross as the slate in the partition burned away. His hand shook ever so harshly. “Lord protect me.”

“Please help me, Father.”

Her face shifted once more to the innocence it had been prior. Her startling wide eyes were coated in fear. She dropped her hands, and lowered her face. The overhead light dulled into its normal intensity. Her shoulders were shaking and the sounds of quiet sobs fell from her lips.

She was fondling the item in her hand, and he got the briefest glimpse of a thin silver blade.

“I didn’t want to do it. I never wanted to, but it… it wants blood.” She raised her gaze once more, looking at him with regret and sorrow. Her gaze darkened. Broken blood vessels knitted through the whites of her eyes. Her lips continued to crack and her deformed tongue licked across it.

“Our Father, who arts in Heaven. Hallowed be thy name…” Father Berkaman began to chant, finding the words flowing with practiced ease through his lips. “… thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.”

The scent of burning wood was overpowering. He watched as the partition between them alighted and began to crumble into ash. The divider between them burned, leaving the space between them unblocked.

Father Berkaman scrambled to his feet, reaching for the door to the booth. There was no lock, there had never been a lock, but as he pushed against the door, he found it refusing to open. He slammed his shoulder against it, grimacing as the solid wood sent a shiver of pain through his bones. He kicked it, finding the door not budging even a hair despite how much force he placed upon it.

“… give us this day our daily bread…”

“I wanted this to work. I was hoping it could work this time. I’ve tried so many churches but they're all the same. You all are the same. It's not your fault.” She was speaking slowly. She rose from her seat, stumbling slightly as she came to her feet. “I wanted it gone but… it hungers. I don’t have enough blood for it. Not the right kind. It needs more blood.”

“… and forgive us our trespasses …”

Father Berkaman found his feet being pulled from beneath him, cutting his prayer off. He landed with a solid hit upon the floor, ears ringing from the impact of his skull against the marbled floor. He turned, pressing his back against the door.

The woman stepped through the burnt remains of the wall. Her long hair hung in a sheet around her face, covering all but one burning eye. The blood vessels had ruptured completely, leaking glistening red down her cheek. She took a step forward, and lingered before taking another.

Within her hand, she grasped a small blade. She took another step towards him. “I didn’t want to do this, but it needs more blood. I need more blood. I’m sorry. It's just that time. It hasn't been fed this month.”

“… as we forgive those who trespass against us.” He retook up his prayer, raising his cross once more. She cocked her head to the side as he jutted the effigy of Jesus between them.

“And lead us not into temptation…” as he spoke, she knelt down, reaching for his cross, “but deliver us from evil…”

She placed a finger upon the wooden cross that had hung around his neck for years. It caught ablaze. Father Berkaman continued to hold the burning cross for as long as he could. The pain from the flames grew too intense. He was forced to drop it. His gaze watched as the figure of Jesus burned away.

“Finish the prayer Father.” She was kneeling in front of him. Her face, despite the trail of blood dripping down her chin, was once more etched with a nervous innocence. “Please. Save both of our souls.”

Father Berkaman breathed rapidly. He could feel his lungs struggling to keep up with the pace he was forcing upon them. His heart pulsed within his neck. He could hear the blood flowing through his ears.

His tongue tasted nothing but the aroma of blood and fear that clouded the air. He closed his eyes, finding no comfort into the sheer darkness he was basked in.

He could hear her moving closer. “Please, Father, finish the prayer.”

Taking a deep breath, he dared to open his eyes.

Blood dripped in heavy puddles onto the marble floor. He watched it roll down her cheeks and splatter on the floor. She held the knife as she leaned forward. Her blood shot eye was trembling in the socket. The cracks in her lips began to bleed as her forked tongue licked at the air with a pure unfettered desire. A hiss began to build within her throat.

“Who are you?” Father Berkaman’s voice shook. “What are you?”

She raised the glistening knife, and angled it towards his chest. Greed and hunger was painted in her gaze. The bulb in the other room flickered, casting them in brief darkness before it settled to an eerie dulled light. The room was hot. Despite the fire being short lived, the air was still stiffening as if the blaze was still burning. Smoke coated the inside of his throat. The taste of blood coated his tongue.

“Finish the prayer, Father.” The young woman leaned closer. The blade hovered just over his heart. “You might just save us both.”

Father Berkaman reached for the burnt cross necklace. His fingers clasped the remains of the crucified Jesus. He held it tight. The Lord was loving, he was merciful, he was just, and Father Berkaman would soon be united with him in a never ending paradise. He would soon be sent home.

“Amen.”